


discipline

by limerental



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bondage, Caning, Dom/sub, F/M, Punishment, Switching, Teacher/Student Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:27:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limerental/pseuds/limerental
Summary: Yennefer punishes her bard & he returns the favor
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70





	discipline

“Pay attention, bard,” says Yennefer as she shifts to kneel at the end of the bed, and how could he not? She looks ethereal, resplendent, alluring in every sense. Terrifying. The candlelight darkens the contour of her cheekbones and the smooth dip of her jaw. She has pulled her dark hair into a bun at the nape of her neck, and the charm dangling on the choker around her neck catches the light against the hollow of her throat.

It’s the only thing she still wears.

She looks down at him shackled to the bed with a haughty scorn in her gaze. The look should not spark low heat in his belly, but oh, it does. Jaskier squirms on the bed, testing the restraints that bind his wrists and legs but finds little give to them.

When she sees that she has his full attention, she raises the slender object in her hand and rests it against her opposite palm.

A willow branch the thickness of her index finger, just longer than the length of her arm.

“Do you know what you’ve done?” she asks, and Jaskier shakes his head dumbly. He thinks back to the evening before, trying to recall any incident that would have displeased her, but nothing stands out.

He had been wintering in Aedirn’s court, paying for a warm room in the keep and a steady flow of dry wine with his musical talents. He had been surprised to find Yennefer choosing to winter here as well, thinking she would be tucked in at Kaer Morhen rather than a court she departed years ago.

But the King seemed pleased with her visit, granting her a place at the head table and on his arm. If rumors were to be believed, in his bed as well.

But not all court gossip has its merit. Yennefer has been warming no one’s bed but his.

Or truthfully, the other way around.

This evening, he had played a banquet for a visiting dignitary. He had played an hour or two before being relieved by a talented harpist, had eaten his fill on the outskirts of the festivities, and had been about to drink his fill as well when the enchantress interrupted him with a hand tightening on his upper arm.

He had known at once, even as he was led away to her chambers, that her dark look did not bode well for him.

Or very well. Depending on how one looks at the present situation.

“I’m looking for an answer, bard,” says Yennefer and extends the willow switch in her hand to tap under the line of his jaw and tip his chin back. “Do you know what you did wrong tonight?”

“No,” he breathes, and it’s the truth. He’s sober, he hadn’t made a fool of himself in front of the visiting dignitary, and he hadn’t said anything untoward to any of the serving girls. If he were honest with himself, he hadn’t been able to look at anyone but Yennefer, swathed in black fabric at the head table, her violet eyes darkened with kohl.

Yennefer draws the end of the switch downward from his chin along the line of his throat, coming to rest on his clavicle. His breath hitches.

“What were you thinking?” says the enchantress, her tone saying she does not actually care to know his thoughts. Not yet. She could draw them out of him with a glance if she wished to. “What possessed you to wear such a thing? Before the entire court.”

For the banquet, he had donned new clothing fresh from the tailors. Ivory silk accented in red damask was perhaps better-suited to a summer court, but he hadn’t wanted to wait to wear it. Come summer he may be traipsing about in swamps for all he knew and what a waste of fine fabrics that would be.

The ensemble is of an unfamiliar style that his tailor had discussed at length as being popular farther south. The open neckline of the silk tunic is meant to allow for far less overheating. He had been wary at first of the extent of the opening in the fabric, the neckline diving well past his sternum with nary an undershirt to be seen beneath, but his tailor had reassured him of its beauty, its panache, its elegance.

The switch in Yennefer’s hand leaves the blunt line of his clavicle to trail down through the dark curl of hair along his bared chest, dipping along the edge of the embroidered silk. It stops at the pointed ‘V’ of the neckline, resting at the base of his sternum.

“The shirt?” asks Jaskier. “What’s wrong with it? My tailor says I’m very fashion-forward. Everyone will be wearing this style come summer.”

“It’s barely midwinter, bard,” says Yennefer. She taps the switch in a gentle rhythm against the ridge of his sternum.

“It’ll catch on.”

“That’s not the point,” she says, and the end of the willow switch thwacks down with a more insistent tap against his chest.

“Ow,” he whines, though it doesn’t really hurt, his chest hair muffling any real sting. “What’s the point, then?”

“The point is,” says Yennefer. “It’s indecent.”

“My shirt,” he says dumbly.

“Your neckline, you imbecile.”

“It’s not indecent. It’s–”

“It’s lascivious. Inappropriate. Distracting.”

“Oh,” laughs Jaskier. “Distracting, hmm? For who I wonder?”

The switch draws back and swats sharply against his waist, the light silk doing nothing to cushion the blow that smarts along his ribcage. He yelps, twisting away, but his bindings hold him tight.

“I will ask again,” says Yennefer, a gleam of firelight in her violet eyes, her mouth twisted thin with disdain. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

She accompanies the question with another swat, this one striking on the swell of his hip.

“Yes,” he hisses. The blow is startling more than painful, but he knows she could easily swing more force into the switch. It’s not thin enough to break skin, but he knows from unfortunate childhood experience that such a tool can still raise welts that settle into ugly bruises.

“Then, tell me,” she says. “Tell me what you’ve done wrong, and I will make the punishment quick. And as painless as you deserve.”

Again, she traces the swooping curve of his neckline with the blunt end of the willow switch, stirring through the hair that thickens in dark curls. Presses with the switch to part the silk fabric further, coming to rest on the dusky nub of a nipple.

“Speak, bard,” she barks. “Where has that famous tongue flown off to?”

The switch taps against his nipple, a threatening pressure, and he groans, dropping his head back against the bed.

“Mmmm,” he hums, eyes fluttering closed.

“Your words,” Yennefer says, the deep timbre of her voice running like liquid along his body, driving a shiver through him. He shifts his hips, silk trousers gone uncomfortably tight. “Use them.”

A smirk pulls at his lips.

“Nothing,” he says, lifting his head to meet her gaze. “I’ve done nothing wrong, mistress.”

The switch cracks down against the line of his chest, stinging on the edge of his nipple, and Jaskier discovers some very choice words to say to the enchantress indeed.

* * *

As the last of his students trickle out of the classroom, she thinks at first that the professor will not address her. He has turned away from the bank of seats that rises in a semi-circle around him and begun to shuffle the lecture notes on his desk. 

She chose a seat well in the back, so she thinks with a small thrum of disappointment that maybe he really hadn’t noticed her. He is humming now, the ridiculous feather in his lopsided hat bobbing as he tucks his notes away. He looks different here than he did traveling with the witcher or even than he did last winter during their shared engagement in Aedirn. More sedate. Strange. Authoritative.

She is readying to slip down the aisle and touch a hand to his shoulder when his voice rises through the amphitheater, sharp and clear.

“Yennefer,” he says without turning round. “Be a dear and fetch the ruler off the board, please.”

“Whatever for?” she asks as she strides slowly down the stairs.

“You know what for,” says the professor, and he turns his head just enough to look at her coming down to him. His jaw is set, his gaze dark. With his eyes on her, she exaggerates the sensuous roll of her hips on the stairs.

“No hello?” He turns to face her as she draws level with him, and she reaches to brush her fingertips along the front of his doublet, buttoned to his chin. _How very unlike him_ , she thinks, but then, perhaps the professor is a different man than the bard. She allows every inch of her rapt attention to show on her face, lips half parted, intention clear. He catches her hand in his and offers her a fleeting smile.

“Hello, Yennefer,” he says and jerks his head toward the chalkboard. “The ruler, if you will.”

She obeys, if slowly, dragging each step and movement out. She pulls her hand from his grasp. Walks around the desk, trailing her fingers along it. Picks up the slender measuring stick from the lip of the chalkboard. Settles it in her grip. Smacks the blunt end of it against her opposite palm, testing.

“What are you measuring in your poetry classes, professor?” she asks.

“My patience,” he says, and he holds out a hand. “Give it here, Yennefer.”

She does not anticipate the thrill of heat that his authoritative tone inspires in her belly. But inspire it, it does. She almost wants to push him, wants to ask _or what?_ , wants to stretch this out, but instead she presses the ruler into his hand.

“Very good,” he says with a rakish smile. “That’s a clever girl.”

Her knees go unexpectedly weak.

“Your lecture was very interesting,” she lies. She hadn’t been paying much attention.

Toward the end, she could swear he hadn’t been either.

The professor does not seem fooled by her lie. His gaze holds steady, something sharp in his blue eyes. She returns his gaze with equal sharpness, though some part of her feels as if she could squirm under his stare. She has known this man lurked somewhere beneath his foppish exterior, some hardened part of him that would not bow to her, but to know that and to see it are very different animals.

“Yennefer,” he says. “Hands on the desk. Turned away from me.”

“Have I done something wrong, professor?” she asks with exaggerated doe-eyed charm, lowering her lashes. It’s ridiculous. It’s utterly silly. 

And yet, it draws out exactly the reaction she had hoped for, a firm hand pulling at her shoulder and tugging until her hands splay against the wood of the desk, the edge digging into her hips.

“You know you have,” he says. “You knew what you were doing.”

“Don’t know what you could mean,” she says, steadfastly controlling her breathing as he tugs her short dress up to rest the chilled ruler against the backs of her thighs.

“You know very well,” he says. “How you aimed to distract me during my lecture.”

Their eyes meet briefly over her shoulder, and his hard gaze slips a moment. There is a question there. _Are you ok? Do you still want this?_ She does not bat her eyes or duck her head, allowing her own mask to slip as she nods. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” she says, and he taps the ruler against her thighs.

“The way you leaned forward in your chair. Hardly anything left to the imagination.”

“Simply rapt by your lecture. Didn’t want to miss a word.”

A sharper tap.

“How you crossed and un-crossed your legs. Hard not to get a glimpse up your skirt.”

“These seats are horrendously uncomfortable.”

Another tap, the sound of the blunt wood striking the meat of her thighs echoing louder than expected in the empty classroom.

“Anyone could have looked back and seen you.”

“Anyone could walk in now.”

He stands beside her, just close enough that she can feel the warm presence of his body but not close enough to touch. She does not look back, eyes lowered to his discarded notes, but she knows how he would look now, flushed red from cheeks to ears, his pupils blown wide, unable to look at anything but her.

He settles a hand on one of her wrists, curling his thumb to rub along her pulse point.

“You’re right,” he breathes, and he is closer than she thought, a hair’s breadth away, lips to her ear. She imagines she can feel the tickle of the feather in his cap along her hairline. “Better be silent as you can, then.”

And he delivers the first real _thwack_ of the ruler against her bare legs, a sting that leaps up through her body and nearly draws out a gasp before she clamps down, further ducking her head.

“You know what you’ve done?” he says against the shell of her ear, and she fights a shiver.

“Mmmmhmmmm,” she hums and leans against her palms, arching her spine and allowing her dress to ruck up past the supple curve of her behind. His hand tightens on her wrist, and he pats the ruler against her once, twice.

“Don’t be coy,” he says, and she laughs. “That’s right, because I know you’re far short of coy.”

“You’d tire of me if I was, _professor_ ,” she says, and he breaks character briefly to duck to kiss the curve of her jaw, his nose nestling against her ear, stubble catching on her smooth skin.

“Never,” he says with grave sincerity as he breathes into the line of her neck. “Oh, Yennefer, never.”

She shivers for an entirely different reason.

And the ruler whistles through the air as it comes down once again.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr @limerental


End file.
